


Girl Friday

by coldbluestar



Category: Grand Theft Auto Series (Video Games), Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: F/M, Office Blow Jobs, POV First Person, POV Multiple, Post-Canon, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26389165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldbluestar/pseuds/coldbluestar
Summary: A Vanilla Unicorn stripper with screenwriting dreams interviews for a production assistant job--only to find herself facing a club regular. An indecent proposal ensues.
Relationships: Michael De Santa/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	Girl Friday

**Author's Note:**

> Felt cute. Might delete later.

You know how when you see a famous celebrity in person that you recognize, you want to go up and say hi to them like they’re an old friend, because their face is so familiar?

I wanted to do that when I saw Mr. Hiring Manager upon entering his office for this producer’s assistant job. It was a familiar face. Not just any regular at the Vanilla Unicorn, but one of the only two people Mr. T. allowed to run a tab at the club. He wasn’t a celebrity by any means, but it was like there was this gravitational pull around him that was reeling me closer to him, about to make my mouth open and coax my voice out, for me to get his attention.

The manager and the bouncers would call him “Mike” or “Mikey” or “Mr. D.S.,” and there was chatter that he was some sort of movie producer. How the hell could I have missed it completely? I never once put two and two together when it was under my nose all along.

I, of course, the meticulous student (or so I thought), did an EyeFind search for this position as an assistant to a producer at Richards Majestic. I made a list of the active producers at the studio, so “Mike D.S.” would be the one named Michael De Santa. Zero photos of him. It didn’t help that his LifeInvader’s public profile picture was a picture of a boat. It was not exactly common for a movie producer not to have too many public photos of him, specially in the age of the camera phone, but certainly not unusual. Audiences do not line up at the box office for a movie producer. But it was strange that this guy had zero online information on him before his first movie credit, _Meltdown_. It’s as if he never existed before his first movie.

I recognized him immediately, but I prayed he wouldn’t recognize me.

He gave me a quick glance as I entered his office, no hint of recognition in his eyes. I internally breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness. I would go for a classic burlesque look at the club, with a jet-black pin-up wig and winged eyeliner, blue contact lenses, porcelain face, and bright crimson lips. It pretty much altered my look entirely. In contrast, my day makeup was much more office-appropriate and less heavy; my fine brown hair was tied in a simple ponytail, and I had perfect eyesight so I didn’t need contacts on my natural brown eyes.

“Close the door, please,” he said in a gravelly and slightly nasal tenor that filled the room in spite of its respectable volume, “and have a seat.” 

He certainly looked like a typical movie producer, a typical man with power—white and middle-aged. His dark brown hair was grown out, slightly overlapping the back of his collar, with wisps sticking out the sides of his neck. I could tell he needed a dye job soon as a few specks of gray were peeking out. He was conventionally handsome, although run-of-the-mill in Vinewood standards, but he made up for it with oozing charisma. He was wearing an expensive suit that cost an entire year of my rent. In Vinewood after all, appearances are everything. 

He held out his hand as I came to the seat across his desk. “Hi, I’m Michael.”

I took his hand, feeling almost plastic and rough, and gave it a single pump while looking into his blue eyes, the typical business handshake. Blue eyes usually looked dull on most people, but his just sparkled. As I leaned in, the smell of his cologne—a designer mix of amber, leather, grapefruit, and ginger, masculine but not overly so—intoxicated me. 

“I’m Elise. Thank you for having me here.” I sat down and quickly studied the room, the walls lined with posters of Solomon Richards movies.

“So. Tell me about yourself.”

“I just graduated with an MFA from the Screenwriting program at ULSA, where I workshopped with James Hendley. I want to make movies because I am a storyteller, and…of course, I want to learn the ropes by starting off as your assistant. I could get immersed and know all the facets of Vinewood filmmaking.”

“Storyteller, huh.” Michael leaned back in his chair, tapping the eraser end of a pencil against his lip. “Okay. Tell me a story.”

“Well, I wrote a spec script at my program that is a sitcom about three weird friends from childhood….”

“No no no no,” he interrupted. “I don’t want to hear about something you already wrote. Tell me a story. Make something up new on the spot.”

I died inside. I was introspective. I can come up with good ideas, but I needed to create them in my quiet time, certainly not on a spot in a high-pressure environment. Improvisation was still something I needed to work on and I’m willing to practice. That was a good answer to weasel my way out of it. But instead, I stared at him like a deer in headlights, my mouth agape.

“Well?” he said impatiently.

“I…I’m sorry. I just can’t come up with something on the spot. That’s not how I usually work.”

“Let me help you out then. Solomon told me that the best stories come from stuff that’s based in reality. From people you know. Or maybe even about yourself. Is there anything interesting about yourself?”

“I…I…no, not really.” My mind was a total blank at that point.

“No interesting stories from working at the Vanilla Unicorn? Lots of interesting types there. Come on, you have to have something.”

My already wide-set eyes grew even wider. I felt the blood rush from my face. I’d obviously omitted that part from my résumé. _Oh, he definitely remembered me. With different makeup? How?_ I’d underestimated him on that respect. But what was his plan? Did he want me to bring it up? Or was he testing me, saying that I should forget about it?

I deadpanned, “Nothing really. I just got a lot of Princess Robot Bubblegum cosplay requests.”

“May I ask how you got into stripping? You don’t have to answer it if you think it’s inappropriate.”

“Not at all. I just joined one amateur night in my hometown, because I was always interested in the neo-burlesque culture and—I found that I enjoyed it.” I shrugged. “Nothing to it, really. It’s a fairly easy way to make money, that’s all. When there are bouncers and alcohol around, men are nicer.”

“And screenwriting? That’s what you really want to do?”

“Yes. My whole life, that’s what I’ve always wanted.”

He paused and stared at me with those blue eyes, squinting so that the crow’s feet at the corners and the lines beneath became more pronounced, studying me over the tip of his nose. I could see his face more clearly now that I was seeing him in the daylight for the first time. Age and a decent amount of stress had stolen the suppleness of his skin, making his cheekbones seem higher and the laugh lines deeper. Somehow, the look just suited him.

“If I gave you this opportunity, you’d become a screenwriter.”

“Yes. I know I’d start out by being a script reader as your PA. I’ll go through your scripts for you. I can read fast; I can read well. I’d give you the Cliff’s Notes in your inbox first thing.”

“What kind of movies do you like?”

“Everything. I’m not a high-brow movie snob. I can enjoy a good summer blockbuster with a lot of action and a simple plot, as long as the plot makes sense and the action is good. I can also enjoy an intellectual dialogue-heavy movie so long as the pace is balanced and the action is intense. I also enjoy surrealistic mindfuck—” I internally cursed myself for swearing at a job interview, even if they most likely wouldn’t give a shit in Vinewood. “—movies that make me question the philosophy of life. And I also adore the classics; they’re the classics for a reason. But the common thread in all those movies that I like is good character development where the hero changes for the better. In Vinewood, we like happy endings. A lot of movies in Europe end with the protagonist in more despair, but that’s not how audiences here like it. I’ve always believed that a good redemption story is universal. People like to see those.”

Michael studied me without saying a word for a good twenty seconds, although in this office, with this silence, it felt like an eternity. He snapped his neck from side to side.

“Well, Elise, thank you for your time. I’m still in the process of interviewing applicants. Someone will contact you if you get the job.”

You know how job applicants in an interview just know if they got the job or not? I knew for sure that I didn’t, especially after that disastrous first part. I’m pretty sure my last answer nearly got to him, based on his reaction. But I don’t blame him for trying to look for someone better. I’d been interviewing for so long and coming up empty—part of me suspects it’s because I don’t fit the mold of the typical plucky young assistant; in my mid-twenties, I’m ancient in Vinewood standards. He’s probably one of those middle-aged Vinewood types who’d prefer a just-turned-legal ingenue to exert as much power over. I had to let him know I was willing to yield to him in some way. 

“Wait,” I said. “I really don’t mean to beg, but...I really want this job. Is there anything I can do for you...as you are well aware of my hidden talents? Please. I’ll work my butt off as your assistant, and I can also do the _other stuff_ for you, whenever you want. You want a happy ending? I can give you one right now.”

In my mind, it didn’t make a difference because my job at the club was to get men off. I had no qualms in extending it here. Truth be told, I wouldn’t have made an offer like that to Solomon Richards, and if Solomon Richards demanded me to do it for him, I’d run out and slam the door on him.

I had entertained a few clients from the club who were willing to pay for extra services after hours, but they were few and far in between. The catch was—I actually had to like them in some way.

So it helped that I already had a previous impression of Mr. D.S., and I had a good feeling about him. He was among the more gentlemanly club-goers; even the other girls would say so. He was at the Vanilla Unicorn frequently for meetings, it seemed, with Mr. T and other people, or with Vinewood filmmakers and on-screen talent that he needed to woo. I don’t think I recall seeing him in there alone, like how other clients of that nature would treat the strip club as their personal harem. Curiously, he never got any private dances, to my knowledge—one of the topics and gossip brought up in changing room chatter—even if being at the club noticeably had an effect on his manhood’s primal impulses. 

As soon as I’d said it, my eyes quickly darted to the wedding band on his left ring finger. It’s not like anything like that has stopped me before. In a perverse way, it actually turned me on instead. 

He chuckled as he played with his wedding ring absently, either broadcasting or acknowledging my awareness of it. “You’re not the first or last person to proposition me to get a job in Vinewood.” He was shaking his head. I probably torpedoed any hope of getting this job with that approach, but I kept my game face on. I think it jarred him instead.

When he realized that I still wasn’t budging, he said, “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Dead serious. I just need an opportunity. Please.”

“So if I give you an opportunity, you’d be a screenwriter.”

“Yes.”

“Even if I ask you to suck my cock?” he chuckled.

I didn’t flinch at the lewdness of his choice of words. “I’ll suck anything you want me to.”

He stared at me for a few seconds, likely deciding if I was serious, bluffing, or if I was going to turn this indecent proposal around and sue him for sexual harassment. Finally, he said huskily, “Come over here,” and he rolled his chair away from his desk to give me room to approach. 

_This is Vinewood, people. De rigueur._ You don’t get to the top of the food chain without acts of depravity. If I was going to blow someone to get a Vinewood job, it might as well be with someone I was somewhat already familiar with.

I got to the floor on my knees in front of him, and he undid his belt buckle and fly. I nudged down the top of his pants and briefs (smart choice so the seams wouldn’t see through those designer pants). I cupped his balls and leaned over to lightly kiss the base of the shaft, still soft and bouncy for now.

This was not the time for experimentation; I gave him the classic—both my hands tightly bound to my lips, to give the sensation of a deep, long cunt, while I sucked him in rhythm, up and down the shaft. I felt him grow long, hard, and thick inside my mouth until I finally couldn’t handle him all at once. I toned down my usual slurping and sucking noises and opted for soft, melodic humming, not sure who could hear outside his office, just softly enough so that he could hear me. He too toned down his grunting. He grabbed a fistful of my hair on the back of my head to control the ferocity of my movements. I let him.

His moans became louder and longer, and I knew he was on the verge of climax. He stopped pushing my head and pulled my hair back even tighter with both hands as his hips jerked forward, prompting me to speed up my rhythm until I felt his balls spasm in my hand and his cock angling upward in my mouth, shooting its release right at the back of my mouth, syncing with the guttural groans of yeses coming out of his throat.

Like I recall, he was one of the nice guys at the club. So, I swallowed his spunk and gave him a few more sucks and licks dry to clean him up.

“Okay, you got the job.” He tucked his cock back in his boxers, zipping up his fly and buckling up in swift motions. “Come back here same time tomorrow so we can discuss this, uh, more formally. I just gotta make a phone call. Attagirl, Peaches.”

I shut the door of his office behind me and froze in my tracks. _Peaches. That’s how he knew._

* * *

After the girl left, Michael stared at at the phone in his hand. “What the fuck did I just do?” he shouted at it. He had two options—call a professional therapist, his current and actually competent one; or call the one person that made him seem like a saint in comparison.

His thumb had a mind of its own, choosing the latter. When the phone on the other line started ringing, he started to regret the decision. He was about to hang up when the click came through.

“Mikey! How’s it hanging?” Trevor’s voice roared through the phone. Oddly coincidental choice of words, Michael thought.

“Hey, T. I’m in a bit of a predicament. You have a minute? Alone?”

“Sure! You’re in luck I woke up in my office this time!”

“Put the video on and scan the room so I can see.”

“Don’t you trust me? After all we’ve been through?”

“You really want me to answer that? Put the fucking video on.”

Trevor gave an exaggeratedly disappointed sigh and consented anyway. Michael saw the vantage point from the floor of Trevor’s office, but Trevor did well enough to give a 360-view to prove he was alone in the office, before switching the video back to the front-facing camera to focus on his face.

“Okay, that’s enough, I’m not gonna ask you to show me the back of your desk because I might see a dead body in there.” Michael took a deep breath before he went on, “I just hired an assistant after she blew me.”

He paused so that Trevor could react, but Trevor said nothing for a few seconds. Finally, he said, “And?”

“I was already doing so well. I mean, I’d had so many actresses and actors offer to blow me for a part, and I never took up on anyone else until her. I don’t know why. Because I knew her? When she walked in, I thought I knew her from the club because I recognized her scent.”

“You recognized the smell of her pussy when she walked in?! I oughta learn how to do that on my girls too.”

“What? No! Her perfume…or body oil. Whatever. It was like peaches. That…that always gets me.…And then I figured it was her even with different makeup.”

“What’s the big fucking deal? This is Vinewood. If anything, you did what every fucking one in this city fucking does.”

“Yeah, I thought I wouldn’t resort to being like that. That I could go by in this business on my smarts, you know? Instead, I did what everyone else does.”

“Well, you of all people always wanted a normal life. Now, you blend just right in! And what the fuck smarts are you talking about?”

“Fuck you, Trevor.”

“Which girl was this?”

“Her name was Elise Carras. I think she called herself Trixie at the club. She’s the one with the classic burlesque look.”

“Ahhhhhhh, Mikey, you always did have a hard-on for the classics,” Trevor snarled. “She made you the offer, didn’t she? Didn’t call the cops or run out screaming bloody harassment? Instead, she blew you, you gave her a job, you get an assistant and your rocks off. I don’t see what’s wrong with this! Everybody wins!” Trevor paused. “Except for me, because I’m now short one stripper. …No wait, I gotta do the _audition_ process to hire a new one. Let me say it again! Everybody wins!”

Maybe Michael really called Trevor to get validation on crossing the line. He sighed. “Thing is, it really seemed to me she was a smart girl. I considered hiring her on the spot to get her out of the club, but I told her I had to do my due diligence and look at other candidates. Then she begged me for the job and offered to get me off…I took up her offer because…. Argh, fucking moment of weakness. My dick did all the thinking. I hadn’t gotten off in God knows how long. Not from my wife or any other ladies of the night. I can’t even jerk off to any porn for fear I might see Tracey in it. …But before any of that happened, I was already ninety-five percent sure I was going to hire her!”

“Are you really doing this for her, Pork Chop? Or are you doing this to stroke your ego? Saving the stripper from the strip club. You stepping in to be her white knight in shining armor. She’s now in your debt, so that’s the only way you’ll get a pretty young thing who’s willing to go down on a fat, old, useless fuck like you.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Michael snapped. He paused as he watched Trevor on the screen. There was something off about him. “Wait, are you jerking off right now?”

“It’s your fault, Mikey. You gave me a fattie as soon as you mentioned your sexy little predicament. Keep going! Tell me more!”

“Dear fucking god. Don’t let me keep ya. Goodbye, Trevor.”

“No! Wait! Stay! I’m clo—” Trevor screamed, but Michael hung up the call.

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first chapter of a fic I'd written and abandoned last year, but it sucked (heh), so I started a new one instead, which I think is less horrible. So please also check out my long-form Michael/OFC fic [_Light Sensitive_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22377016). =)


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